


the sea slides back

by glitteratiglue



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: The Next Generation (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Movie: Star Trek Nemesis (2002), Recovery, Self-Harm, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22210861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: This body does not belong to her. She turns her palms face upwards and stares at them, these once-familiar lines on her hands, these fingernails that are someone else’s.
Relationships: William Riker/Deanna Troi
Comments: 11
Kudos: 77





	the sea slides back

It takes a few days after boarding _Titan_ for Deanna to notice there’s something wrong with the psionic bridge between her and Will. There are so many new minds for her to keep track of, all operating at a level of nervous anticipation that rattles her teeth in her skull.

They are burning for the Neutral Zone at high warp when she looks across at Will during a briefing and realises she has no sense of him. He is speaking with the calm authority of a captain and he might as well be light years away from her.

 _Imzadi_ , she tries gently, and there’s nothing. A barren void is open in the space where his thoughts should be, and panic rises in her chest like thick fog.

The bridge crew are saying important things, things that as the diplomatic officer, she needs to hear and respond to. Instead, she tunnels inside herself. Her blood is a living thing, singing in her ears in time with her rapid heartbeat. This body does not belong to her. She turns her palms face upwards and stares at them: the once-familiar lines on these hands, these fingernails that are someone else’s.

Will is watching her now, eyes soft with concern. The briefing continues.

She forces her way into the viceroy’s mind, searching for the _Scimitar_ , shifting Worf’s hand on the console. She did what her captain asked of her, a Starfleet officer through and through. Steel bands of white-hot agony pushed at her skull as she twined the threads of her thoughts around his mind, searching for weak spots. When that hadn’t worked, she’d sent dark, malevolent images his way — of violence, screams, torture — hoping to reach him, expose a chink she could tear open.

Deanna has never told anyone she vomited afterwards from the effort, or how disgusted she was with herself for what she did. It took every inch of her reserves as a half-telepath, and she is starting to think that this was the moment when she broke her mind.

“Deanna! Deanna!” Will is shaking her awake.

“Mm?”

“You were screaming.”

Deanna gets better at pretending around the crew. She paints makeup onto her face, wears her practised smile and attends long hours of negotiations with the Romulans over terms of a potential new agreement with the Federation.

The role is exhausting, for now she is both diplomatic officer and captain’s wife; the latter a heavier mantle to wear than she ever expected. The crew look to her for reassurance as much as they look to their captain. So often, she took the refuge of Will’s mind for granted, allowing the familiar, warm tenor of his thoughts to soothe her after a difficult day. Now, she can no longer reliably find him, and it is akin to stumbling along a dark path with no lantern to guide her.

She considers reaching out to someone — Beverly, perhaps, or one of her new colleagues — and rapidly discards the idea.

It won’t fix her.

One night, as they pore over centuries worth of Romulan senatorial customs in their quarters, her mind takes the worst possible moment to release its blocks for a few brief seconds. It gives up her memory of Shinzon’s violation — before she can stop them, the tendrils break loose and wrap themselves around Will’s mind like an oil slick.

“Imzadi,” he says, recoiling as he gets the full force of everything she felt in that moment. “Deanna, I knew, but seeing it — I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

His arms are around her at once. Her head is pressed into his chest and she can smell him: Starfleet soap, ozone from the ship’s air filters and beneath it, his own clean scent. She breathes in deep, lets it comfort her, and tries not to cry when she realises her mind is starting to close up once more.

Rage that isn’t hers burns crimson-hot in her thoughts as Will relives hurling Shinzon’s viceroy down into the darkness. She welcomes it; anything is better than the emptiness where their link once was. Seconds later, her mind draws down the shades and shuts him out again, an awful irony while his body still surrounds her.

Will finds her in the bathroom, the sleeves of her uniform pushed up, clawing red marks into her arms. Her nails are ragged, blood lodged underneath their cuticles.

His face blanches. “Deanna — _Christ,_ what the hell have you done to yourself?”

“I didn’t even know I was doing it,” Deanna says distantly. There is blood on the nearby wall, too, and she realises that was how she wrecked her nails.

She gets a nail tool. It whirs, high and whining as she shears the uneven, frayed edges away.

Will doesn’t dare suggest going to sickbay. The Romulans are dragging their feet and they both know he can’t risk one of his key negotiators being relieved of duty right now.

He obtains a dermal regenerator on the quiet; it’ll have to do.

He hesitates before touching her forearm: this man who is so inherently tactile, who pushes his thigh against hers when they sit at the poker table, playfully shoulder-bumps a friend as he passes them in the corridor, who before, would press a hand to her elbow or shoulder or neck without a second thought.

“I’ll do it,” she says crossly, shoving off his hand and taking the regenerator from him. The angle is more awkward like this, but it’s better than Will touching her like she’s chipped glass.

His face falls as he misunderstands completely why she doesn’t want him to touch her. Deanna mentally winces and tries to thought-cast at him, forgetting again, but the wall between their minds might as well be tritanium bulk.

The words to explain won’t get past her throat. She watches Will leave for alpha shift with a face like she’s physically stung him with a blow.

The Betazoid half of her brain has somehow short-circuited itself. She is a faulty plasma coil, a malfunctioning graviton beam split in two by some phenomenon, reflecting her own pain back to herself in a narrow arc that makes it feel like her own memories of Shinzon have doubled in intensity.

“You need help, Deanna,” Will insists. The circles under his eyes are darker than they were yesterday. “Can’t you at least try the ship’s counselors?”

“I don’t think they can help with this kind of telepathic problem.” She sucks in a shuddering breath. “I just need time, I think. It’ll get better.”

Starfleet to the core, Will has always started his day with an early morning workout on the gymnasium deck.

Deanna doesn’t often join him, preferring those extra few minutes of sleep, but today she does, hoping to burn away some of the agitation crowding under her skin.

She runs nearly a mile on the anti-grav treadmill and pulls at resistance bands until her arms are aching so much she can barely lift her breakfast cup of tea. Will’s brows knit together in worry while they sit together in the mess hall and she doesn’t touch her meal.

Her thighs tremble, the muscles protesting when she stands to throw her full tray in the reclamator.

“Tough workout this morning, Commander Troi?” an ensign says with a smile that Deanna returns.

“Overdid it a bit. You know.”

She can feel Will’s eyes boring into her as she leaves, like he knows exactly how hard she was pushing herself, and why.

The joke that passed her by that morning will come back to her much later. She’s a newlywed; her thighs should be aching for an entirely different reason than the gym. Another thing Shinzon has taken from her.

It’s been weeks now and they still haven’t made love. He hasn’t even tried to broach the subject since. She wants so desperately to forget about this pressure in her mind for a few stupid minutes, to have Will’s laughter, his mischievous smiles pressed into her naked skin as he takes her in the playful way only he can.

“Uh, Deanna, I don’t think I can — it’s gone,” Will says, his face apologetic as he goes soft in her grip.

“Oh,” is all she can manage.

His face is impassive but even with her currently unreliable mind, she is still empathic enough to sense the cringing embarrassment beneath.

“It’s not the be all and end all,” he tries, patting at her hip. He drops a kiss on her neck and murmurs, “I’ve still got my fingers. My tongue, too. Or toys, if you’d prefer? What do you want, imzadi? We can do whatever you want; whatever makes you feel good.”

“I don’t think you want to,” she surmises, and his eyes say it all.

His body tenses against her. “It’s not that I don’t,” he admits. “You’re my wife and I’m the luckiest man alive to have you in my bed. But every part of me except my body seems to know that, unfortunately. Because when I start to touch you, or think about you in that way, all I see is him. What you showed me.”

Deanna wants to laugh. She’s supposed to be the one not able to handle physical intimacy, not him.

Of course, to have your face replaced by another is its own kind of horror, and worse still, it’s not the first time. Will had struggled enough years ago with what the Ullian Jev had used a memory of him for. Deanna had found it unpleasant, of course, but that had only been an altered image, something her mind could dismiss. This time, her reality has been invaded, and everything about that is different.

“Can you just hold me?” she asks.

“Yeah.” They take the rest of their clothes off and lie there naked, an intimacy they can still manage. His body is hot against the length of her spine as he pulls her close, and she can kid herself for a few moments that she isn’t losing him, too.

_He can never know you as I can_ screams in her thoughts and Shinzon’s dead-eyed gaze fixes on hers. His face is sunken, hideous with the waxy pallor of a dying man. He kisses her with his cold, terrible snake mouth; she tries to fight it and she isn’t strong enough.

Will finds her on the floor next to their bed, shaking, her arms wrapped around her thighs and her stare blank.

She has at least managed not to scratch her arms to ribbons this time. Will presses his hands to his eyes and his emotions tell her what his mind can’t: like her, he is reaching his own breaking point.

“You need a Betazoid,” Will says from his ready room chair the next day. “Or at least, someone who specialises in trauma complicated by spousal psionic bonds.”

He turns his console around, revealing an article from the _Deltan Journal of Psychology._

“I’ve read that one,” Deanna says. “And I know. I just didn’t want it to get in the way of things here. This was such a delicate mission; it had to succeed. That was more important than me.”

“I don’t think it is,” Will says fiercely.

Her jet-black eyes are gently reproving as she turns them upon him. “Remember, you’re a captain now. In the service of the greater good.”

His shoulders sag. “I know. Donatra’s been a big help. Tomorrow’s negotiations with Nervek and the new senators should represent a turnaround, with any luck. I’m hoping the _Titan_ might get a break from the task force soon enough. The crew are exhausted. I need to find an excuse to put into a starbase — as soon as tomorrow’s meeting is over, at least.”

She comes around the desk and starts to rub soothing circles on his neck and shoulders, feeling the tension ebb from the muscles.

“Mm. Feels nice.”

“ _Your_ crew,” Deanna observes. “How does that feel?”

“Amazing,” Will says. “I’m so proud of them. They’ve performed above and beyond expectations at every turn.” He turns his head and pulls Deanna down with a hand to kiss her gently. “Especially that diplomatic officer of mine.”

She has no idea how Will does it, but he gets her a leave of absence. The negotiations are winding to a close, and unbelievably, the Romulans are open to sharing of certain territories with the Federation.

Her mother is waiting when she beams down to Betazed.

_Oh, little one. It’s alright. Well, no — it’s not. But I’m here._

Lwaxana embraces her in a cloud of magenta taffeta and perfume. Deanna returns the hug and they make it to the hallway of the house before she breaks down.

They sit on the marble staircase and she cries the way she can only cry with her mother, where she doesn’t have to pretend not to be small and broken, poisoned by something she struggles to express even to her husband. And she doesn’t have to explain a thing: her mind might be defective and sending out sparks, but Lwaxana’s superior telepathic abilities can see through its murkiness.

She knows everything that has happened to Deanna without her having to say a word. The relief of that hits Deanna so deeply that she cries harder, letting her mother hold her through it, hold her together.

“We never did get to the Opal Sea,” Deanna says sadly, once Lwaxana has steered her into the garden room and settled them on a couch. “I was so looking forward to it. The white sand beaches, relaxing on a sunlounger doing nothing.”

Mr Homn rings the gong and brings them an array of delicacies that must have been designed specifically to tempt her.

“Try a deep-fried oskoid, darling. They’re your favourite,” Lwaxana insists.

Deanna takes one and crunches it down obediently, hardly tasting it.

“I had this lovely swimsuit – deep purple, cutouts and ties everywhere. Will would have loved it.”

“I see things are still difficult physically between the two of you,” Lwaxana says, placing a hand on her forearm.

“Mother!”

“Oh, Deanna,” she scoffs. “Don’t be such a prude. You shouldn’t have showed me if you didn’t want me to know about William’s difficulties.”

“They’re _our_ difficulties,” Deanna corrects, and her mother waves a hand.

“Yes, yes. You should tell Will not to worry. It happens, there was this point where your father lost his confidence —” she thankfully tails off when Deanna’s face pales. “Anyway, Dr Andros from the Rixx Institute of Psychiatry is ready to see you first thing tomorrow. I sent him your file.”

“Thank you, mother. Really.”

With the psychiatrist, Deanna starts the process of loosening her mental blocks. The change her mind has undergone is some kind of ancient Betazoid defense mechanism, a remnant from pre-warp times when their communication was purely telepathic. The spousal bond she shares with Will makes her vulnerable to invasion, so her brain has essentially closed it off.

With help, she re-learns healthier mental shielding techniques, rewrites ingrained mind patterns and her nightmares begin to reduce in frequency. It doesn’t fix her, but she learns how to be somebody new who can live with this.

Her hybrid physiology complicates the situation; Dr Andros can't give her an answer on when she might be able to hear Will's thoughts again. Her Betazoid neural pathways are still repairing themselves, reintegrating into the human parts of her brain, and he can't say how long that will take.

She learns, with a chill, that had this continued untreated, it would have caused irreversible brain damage. Along with everything else he has taken, Shinzon would have stolen her sanity, too.

Will’s eyebrows just about disappear up into his hair when she suggests they try sex therapy.

“Fine.” He sets his jaw. “But we’re not bringing the therapist on board. I’m not ashamed, but my crew — a captain has to keep some things private.”

They manage to find a suitable therapist at a starbase near the Neutral Zone. The sessions are accompanied by homework: massages, non-sexual touching while they share fantasies, progressing slowly to more.

They are both of the opinion they don’t need to take it _that_ slow, but following the process brings them closer as a couple like they never imagined. Will’s problem resolves itself with time and thorough examination of the emotional issues surrounding it. They keep things creative, expand their definition of what sex can be and rediscover other ways to be intimate.

To her joy, while they do the work of repairing their physical connection to one another, their telepathic bond begins to reassert itself. One day, she realises she can sense Will brushing at the edges of her mind for the first time in a while.

 _Imzadi, you’re here_. His voice is trembling in her mind with feeling and awe as he looks at her from across the bridge.

 _I missed you_ , she sends, and feels his unequivocal agreement in her thoughts.

“God, I love you, Deanna,” Will gasps out, pupils blown while she lashes his wrists to the bed with strips of Betazoid velvet.

_Not as much as you’re going to love me in a minute._

They’re going to be alright, she thinks.

The _Enterprise_ is docked at the same starbase as the _Titan_ and it is occasion for a joyous reunion. Or at least it should be.

Once Will is safely ensconced with Geordi and Beverly, Deanna makes her way to the captain’s ready room to have a conversation that’s been a long time coming.

“Hello, Deanna,” Jean-Luc says, a warmth in his smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Captain.” She nods at him. “I need to talk to you about Shinzon.”

He exhales slowly. “Yes. I confess I’ve been expecting this.”

She comes right out with it. “You refused to relieve me from duty when I’d suffered an assault. You were depersonalised once, by the Borg. They took parts of you, too and you should know better.”

Jean-Luc takes every blow without flinching, to his credit.

“Deanna,” he begins awkwardly, “I regret deeply that I didn’t take this telepathic violation of Shinzon’s more seriously at the time.”

“You mean rape,” she says dryly.

“Yes, I suppose,” he says, his face offering no clue to his reaction.

“He raped me, Jean-Luc,” she says flatly. “My husband was inside me and another took his place. I felt it physically as if it was Shinzon in my body, then his viceroy.” She watches her former captain flinch as she shares these personal, private details, but he holds her gaze — he didn’t get to be one of the best diplomats the Federation has ever had by shrinking from a difficult conversation.

She continues: “You wanted me to let the man who did that to me into my mind again. To welcome him, even. All for the good of the mission.”

“I’m so terribly sorry, Deanna,” Jean-Luc says at last, reaching out for her hands, leaving a distance between them in case she doesn’t want to take them.

“I know.” She rests her hands on his, and it’s no small thing. “And never ask that of any of your officers ever again, please.”

“You know I won't.” He lets out a slow breath, pausing. “We were in a state of war and I wasn’t thinking clearly, but that was no excuse. I should never have put you through something like that. I’m probably the last person you want to talk to, Deanna, but I am here for you both. You and Will. If you need me.”

“Thank you.” Deanna squeezes his hands and finally takes a seat in the chair opposite. She points to the holo-image of Data on the wall behind him. “It’s not the same without him, is it?”

“No.” Jean-Luc smiles sadly. “Tell me something you remember about Data. Anything.”

“Well…”

Their Betazoid ceremony finally happens a year later, in a peaceful grove ringed with fragrant zintaba trees in sight of her family home.

Deanna and Will aren’t the only ones to feel the absence of their android friend keenly, but they are Starfleet officers. They are used to death and will go on as they always have. As Data would want them to.

Deanna wears flowers in her hair like a true daughter of the Fifth House, and holds her husband’s hand while they say their lengthy vows according to the ancient traditions of her planet.

To stand here with Will amongst their friends, their minds joined and everyone gloriously naked seems like its own kind of healing. He wants to know the ways of her people just as she has learned his, and they have a lifetime ahead of them to teach each other.

She can feel everything of who he is, warm and golden and threaded through her mind, and at last, their connection belongs to them alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Tbh I mostly wrote this because I have always hated what Picard made her do, like rage-hated (*side-eyes Nemesis writers*).
> 
> I was also reading _Ariel_ by the late, great Sylvia Plath, which furnished the title (the poem is 'Contusion').


End file.
